Tripping Through Absurdity
by CroweFan
Summary: A New Angst-Filled Comedy
1. Knock Knock: Who's There?

**Tripping Through Absurdity**  
An Angst-Filled Comedy

**by penny**

**Spoilers:** None

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Alias, Lauren would be viewing the world from the bottom of my wastebasket.

**Summary:** Loosely based on _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_ (great movie, you should check it out). A total AU version of season three. Vaughn is a psychologist. Sydney is a crackpot. Lauren is an Evil Mad Scientist. Weiss is a b-tch. Marshall is a sweetheart. Jack is worm food. Max is my hero.  
  


**Chapter 1: Knock, Knock; Who's There?**

She feels like a stranger in her own skin -- confused, unsure… scared. Five years have passed. The Covenant held her prisoner: they tortured her, they abused her, they stole her life from her; and when she was able she worked to destroy them. Once again she filled the shoes of double agent, once again she allowed the darkness to consume her. The only difference: this time around she didn't have him. She never asked about him or anyone she loved, in a way she didn't care: it was all about the job.

At least that's Kendall's side of the story. She has no memory of it. To her it's been two weeks since she killed Allison. It's still 2003. But, it's not. It's 2008. Five years have passed and the time jump destroyed all she loved. The lack of memories subdues her: she doesn't want to remember the years, how they destroyed all she loved. Because the sole blame for what occurred is hers, and hers alone. She chose to be a double agent; she could have ended it, but she didn't. Now she pays the repercussions.

The truth has been unfeasible to comprehend, but one factor pains her like a paper cut: his absence. It is as if he never existed. No one mentions his name; when Sydney inquires they avert their eyes or change the subject. She asks questions and they don't answer.

He disappeared off the face of the Earth. What happened? Where is he? Actor? Writer? Director? Loser? Drifter? Dating? Engaged? Married? Homosexual? Bisexual? Transsexual? Metrosexual? Female? Hermit? Monk? Misanthrope? Civilian? Undercover? Transferred? FBI? NSC? DIA? NIC? ORR? OSR? OTR? Freelancer? Prisoner? Captive? Terrorist? Philanthropist? Cultist? Buddhist? Fundamentalist? Nihilist?

Or worse: dead?

The monomaniacal fixation consumes her, until it becomes an eternal flame that is begging to be quenched: if they won't tell he, she'll find out herself. On the afternoon break, she takes her lunch into one of the research centers. Logging into the system, she starts running his name against every possible Search. Only one result comes up:

Michael C. Vaughn  
S. S #: 987-65-4320  
348 K Street, West Beach  
Santa Barbara, California, 93101

No other information, not even his CIA file. Just an address in Santa Barbara. She abandons her half-eaten chicken salad and Coke at the computer station and hastens to the parking garage. He's in Santa Barbara. iSanta Barbara/i, she repeats while she piles out of the garage and North onto the highway. Questions overwhelm her -- why hasn't he made contact? Does he know that she is alive? Is he still CIA? Does he still care? Is he dating anyone? -- to the point she looks down at the speedometer and notices she is doing ninety-five.

Getting off of the exit, she speeds towards the beach (she also praises God for GPS). She turns right, then hooks an immediate left to find K Street. 348 is at the end. She takes a deep breath, tries to remain calm and pulls into his driveway.

The house is simple: sandstone, pebble driveway, stairs to the small patio above the ground floor garage; it's accented by a clean and linear landscape. Eying the silver S2000 and hearing the waves of the nearby beach, Sydney suddenly feels overdressed in her black suit and dark eyeliner.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Climbing the stairs, she reminds herself to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. How will he react if he doesn't already know that she is alive? That she's back? Shock? Joy? Rage? Will he cry? (Will she not cry?) Will there be an embrace? Will there be more than an embrace? Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

The door is cracked open. Gingerly, Sydney knocks (she doesn't see a doorbell) and opens it, placing one foot inside. A voice echoes throughout the hall: it's his; the temptation to transform to mush grows stronger. She manages to say, "HELLO?"

She hears him ask, "Now, Sid, how long ago was that?"

Her heart skips, "Vaughn?"

"Hold on for just a second." Vaughn says before shouting, "The money's on the counter. If you could just leave the food, that would be great. Thank you." Vaughn stops and starts up again, "Okay, Sid, I'm back; now, you need to calm down."

What is going on? Who is he talking to? And what about the money? Sydney walks through the hallway and notices on the counter the money he mentioned. Sydney assumes he ordered Take-Out. He's still talking to "Sid."

"I'm not patronizing you." A beat. "I can't help you if you're screaming in my ear." A longer beat. "Sid, Dr. Kerr is out of town for the weekend." Another beat. "No, I don't have his number." Beat. "Sid, listen to me."

Sydney pauses at the entryway to the living room and listens. His smooth and pacifying voice is the same as it was all of those years ago. She watches him: he sits on his couch, tapping a pen against a legal pad, with the phone pressed to his ear. Time passed him by; for he looks as handsome as ever; the only difference is now he looks better -- almost as if he's happy and carefree; the constant state of worry he lived in seems to have vanished. "I guarantee you the snake is gone."

Snake? What the fuck? All of this is about a snake? Sydney watches him curiously; he still hasn't sensed her presence. Vaughn exasperatedly sighs and looks around the room. Then he notices her. He doesn't say a word. Sydney takes a step forward, but stops when he puts up his finger signaling her not to come any closer. "Yes, I'm still here."

He scribbles something on his legal pad and motions for Sydney to come over and read it. "Sid, snakes aren't like dogs; they are not going to chase you."

She walks over to stand beside him and reads the note: _Can you come back later?_

Come back later? Hurt, Sydney glares at him. That's not the homecoming she had imagined. What the hell is so important about the snake that he can't get off the phone? Is she a bad person if she hangs up for him?

She replies: _No, I'll wait._

"That's rather harsh. I might not be your favorite person in the office, but still. I'm not obligated to continue this conversation." He tells Sid, as he responds to Sydney: _This will take a while, possibly all day._

Sydney underlines her first response. "Sid, when is your husband coming home?" Vaughn nods and writes something else: _How did you get this address? Dr. Wilkinson?_

"I want you to call him and tell him to come home immediately." Who the hell is Dr. Wilkinson? Sydney scribbles a retort: _Who's that? I found this address in the CIA databases -- no one would tell me where you were._ She adds in hesitatively. _I was worried._

Vaughn stares up at her (and wrinkles his forehead). "Because, Sid, something personal has come up which I must resolve immediately."

"I know." A beat. "I know." Another beat. "Sid, call John; he only works two blocks away. He'll come home and you'll be absolutely fine."

"Good." A beat. "Same to you." He hangs up, tosses the phone aside, and rubs his eyebrows. He mutters to himself, "That is the last time I cover for Kerr."

He stands up and finally gives Sydney his full attention. "I apologize about that. Now, you say you got this address from the CIA?" He airily inquires, and his clueless tone startles Sydney. Something is wrong. His vague expression and question throw her off guard. She isn't prepared for this; she is prepared for every other possible scenario, but not this one.

"I ran a search on your name after Dixon and Weiss refused to tell me your current location. Vaughn, I…" Not caring if something odd is taking place, her instincts take over: she bolts into his arms and sobs. Initially he doesn't react; after a moment he tentatively starts to rub her back; he continues a little longer before gently pulling away from her. He doesn't have a tissue, or he'd give it to her.

Words start spilling out of Sydney: "I'm alive. I mean, I was never dead. This organization similar to the Alliance called the Covenant kidnapped me. They tortured me and tried to brainwash me into thinking I was an assassin named Julia Thorne; but I can't be brainwashed because of Project Christmas, so I pretended to be Julia Thorne and was a double agent, until I escaped, and I have no memory of any of this and I woke up in Hong Kong like nothing happened, my last memory was of Will in the bath tub and you in the car and killing Allison, and now, five years have passed and Vaughn…" Sydney catches her breath, and starts to sob again. "Vaughn, they executed Dad… He… He…" Sydney takes a step closer, yearning for him to act, to hug her, to comfort her. "Why are you looking at me like that?" Sydney breathes, confused.

Vaughn stares at her, trying not to gape his mouth. He examines her. Sydney watches the shock take over his body. He doesn't know what to do, or what to say. He starts to slowly nod. "Miss…I'm truly sorry; however I believe you're mistaken."

Sydney repeats, bamboozled. "Mistaken?"

"What is your name, you never gave it…" He asks as he walks around her and goes to his desk; in search of what, she doesn't know.

"My name?" She slowly comes out of her shock and turns right into anger. "My name is Syd. Sydney Bristow. Vaughn, I don't know what you are playing at here, but…"

He writes her name down.

"Vaughn, why are you acting this way?" She doesn't believe he would ever be purposely malicious; and any hopes of this being a joke are quickly fading.

"Miss Bristow," He doesn't answer her question, "Here's a number of a colleague I want you to call on Monday…"

"Colleague?" The room creates a nasty echo.

"I'm a psychologist."

"No." Sydney's voice shakes. "No you're not. You are an operations officer at the CIA. You were my handler before the take down; after that you were my partner: I ran point, you ran comm."

"Miss Bristow, I've never worked for the CIA." He hands her the business card.

"You think I'm crazy?"

"I think you should call that number."

"If you think I'm crazy and you're a psychologist, why can't I talk to you?"

"I'm not taking on any new patients."

"Patient? I'm not your patient, I am -- I was your girlfriend until you thought I died; I was your asset at the CIA, I…"

"Miss Bristow," Vaughn stops her in a serious tone. "I've never met you before in my life."

Vaughn walks closer and starts to lead her down the hallway and out of his house. Sydney doesn't say another word; she gapes for a few seconds and emotionlessly floats down the hall. Vaughn ushers her out of the door, and before closing it once again suggests that she call his associate.

Somehow she makes it to her car. When she gets in, she cries.

Next

**Case Of You** is not affiliated with ABC, Bad Robot, or JJ Abrams. A Dimpled Smile Production. All Fanfiction are pennylane © 2004. 


	2. 50 Ways To Leave A Lover

  


**Chapter 2: Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover**

It's a miracle she doesn't cause a twenty-five-car pile up on her way back to Los Angeles. Tears limit her visibility worse than a torrential downpour. If asked to recall the emotions and thoughts running through her mind, she couldn't tell you. The fear and the shock and the hurt and the fury and the confused and the hatred blur; ambiguously smearing together, creating an impossible kaleidoscope without distinction.

_"Miss Bristow, I've never met you before in my life."_

What does that -- he - mean? Why would he say such hurtful words? How could he not remember her? Was that even really Vaughn? She hates to think it, but could he be a clone as well? But if he is a clone, why on Earth isn't he working for the CIA? Wouldn't they double him to create another mole????

No, he's not doubled, that makes no sense. That was Vaughn; it wasn't _her_ Vaughn,but the man she saw is the Vaughn she knows -- he just doesn't know her.

Why? What the hell is going on? Is he undercover; but as a psychologist? That's just crazy. How could that be beneficial towards a takedown of an international crime syndicate? And if he was undercover, was his place bugged? Is that why he pretended to not know her? Did her confession compromise his mission? Did she put him in danger? Was she already in danger? Was he in the witness protection program? But still, if he was in the program, why wouldn't he remember her???!!!

No, that can't be right either. As for being undercover, Vaughn might be a good actor, but not when it comes to her. He could never hide his feelings from her. And when she walked into the living room, he wasn't shocked at all.

He really didn't know her.

So there is only one option left, and Sydney knows what it is: the CIA is to blame. Her "friends" have all of the answers.

There's a conspiracy afloat, and she plans on sinking it.

Speeding into the CIA parking lot, she slams the car door shut and barges through the doors to the Joint Task Force. Practically running down the hallway, she reaches the Rotunda: Weiss sits at his desk and Marshall putters around his office. Dixon's office door is shut: he's in a meeting.

Sydney marches towards Weiss first -- who in turn looks up and gulps -- and points at him. "You! Right now." Weiss knows better than to argue. He jumps out of his seat and follows Sydney, who has already arrived at Marshall's office. She flings open the door and notifies a befuddled Marshall, "Dixon's office. Now." Marshall hesitates, but Weiss nods and Marshall follows along.

Sydney storms into Dixon's office, interrupting his meeting that is with, of all people, Kendall.

Good, Sydney thinks. I want him here when the sh-t hits the fan.

"What the **fuck** did you do?" Her barely audible voice demands attention from the four men staring at her. Kendall and Dixon remain unresponsive and will not meet her glare. Weiss closes the door behind him, putting his hands in his pockets, and remaining towards the back of the room. Marshall glances at Weiss asking 'Do I Really Have To Be Here' with his eyes. Weiss nods and Marshall breathes heavier. He, as well as the others, know -- Sydney is out for the kill.

Dixon starts to say, "What are you talking about," but Sydney only allows the "what" to get out before screaming:

"You know damn well what the fuck I'm talking about. I just saw Vaughn. He's living in Santa Barbara. He's a psychologist. He never worked for the CIA. _He doesn't know me_."

"Sydney..." Dixon says in vain.

"WHY DOESN'T HE REMEMBER ME?" Her shrill voice booms not only through the office, but throughout the entire Task Force facility. "WHAT did you do to him? I know you all are behind this! This is the only conclusion I could come up with that makes some kind of sense. You did something to him! He wouldn't forget me! He would never forget me."

Tears run down Sydney's cheeks and she hastily wipes them dry. Dixon is the first to endeavor making contact by coming from behind his desk and placing his hand on Sydney's shoulder. She knocks it away.

"You did this!" Sydney directs her statement towards Kendall.

Initially Kendall refuses to answer. In the end, he simply declares, "Sydney, I had absolutely nothing to do with what happened."

"So I am right then." It is more of a statement than a question.

Kendall continues, "Everything concerning Vaughn is classified Omega-17."

"Classified?" Sydney gasps. The word obliterates her last ounce of sanity. She is **way** past retaining anything resembling composure. Powerfully she repeats, "CLASSIFIED?! You will not tell me why the man I love acts like he's never met me…because it's _classified_?"

Kendall averts his eyes. Something is wrong: very, _very_, **very** wrong.

"FUCK CLASSIFICATION! DE-classify it - NOW!"

Dixon informs her, "It's not under our jurisdiction. Technically we aren't even supposed to know."

"But you DO know!" Sydney exclaims, turning back to Kendall, she starts rapidly firing: "How are you involved? Does this have to do with Project Black Hole? Rambaldi? The past five years? Why won't you tell me what the truth is? I need to know! I _deserve_ to know!"

She looks around the room, rage taking control. "It wasn't enough you took away my father…you had to take him away from me, too?!?"

Still silence.

"What happened?" Sydney cries. "Tell me, Goddammit!"

The air of the room suffocates the guilty. Sydney huffs, glaring at each of them, waiting for answers.

Marshall breaks.

Timidly, he lets it out in one breath, "Hehadhismemoryerased."

"What?" Sydney snaps her body around and faces Marshall. Marshall looks to Weiss for guidance, but doesn't get any love. Marshall clears his throat in a "please-do-not-kill-the-messenger" fashion. "He had his memory erased."

Marshall gulps with nervous apprehension. The bomb he has just dropped didn't denotate on time -- now they are waiting for the delayed explosion. In addition, Marshall prays Sydney will not kill him. After all, he is a daddy now. There's one single drop of sweat on his forehead.

"HE ERASED ME?" Sydney's squeals and hisses intertwine, creating a horrible sound.

"Sydney, no." Marshall shudders.

"Then why doesn't he remember me?"

Marshall corrects, "Well, see, he did go through with the procedure, he… uh didn't want to remember…"

"That sonofabitch!" Anger wins out in the emotion contest.

Dixon reports, "We thought you were dead. He thought you were dead."

Sydney finds no reason to halt her emotional outburst now. "How could he? He just _erased_ me? I meant nothing to him? He just tossed me aside? That bastard. Did he do it right after he received the news, or did he at least wait until the fucking funeral? I thought… I thought that…"

"That what? That he loved you?" Weiss finally decides to speak. Nonchalantly, he tells Sydney the truth: "Sydney, Vaughn loved you so much your death killed him."

Sydney hangs her head. She feels her knees give way and she sinks onto the couch, weeping.

Weiss changes neither his tone nor his expression. "When you died, Vaughn -- spiritually, emotionally, mentally -- died with you. He couldn't function. He lost the ability to live. Life lost all purpose for him. He drank everyday, turned nasty and confrontational towards everyone in the office. He became a problem in the field, he was just looking for a way out. He just dug himself deeper and deeper into an early grave.

"He had appointments with Barnett daily, but they didn't help. Finally, it got to the point where he actually…" Sydney raises her head, knowing the rest of the sentence. Weiss silently nods. "It wasn't a matter of 'if,' it was a matter of 'when.' That's when he was committed to a CIA hospital. He remained in their care until the procedure was performed.

"The CIA was experimenting with this new technology: a type of amnesia which allowed the patient to block out memories -- torture, codes, assassinations, dead partners… And well, Syd... He was a candidate for the preliminary study. And in the end, he agreed to go through with it. Frankly, as I see it, he made the right decision. As hard as that might sound, it's better to not remember rather than sitting locked up in some fucking asylum."

Sydney doesn't know how to react. This is her fault; her father's death is her fault; and now Vaughn's amnesia is her fault. Why? Because her picture was drawn on some page centuries ago. Because of her need for revenge. Because she is her mother's daughter.

The four men watch her sit on the couch and cry. She cries and tries (and fails) to absorb all that Weiss has just told her. The numbness returns, with only one question still lingering…it's the only one that matters: "How… Can he… get his memories back?"

"Honestly, I don't know," Dixon replies. "Once his memory was erased, all of the files and details regarding him were classified and nothing else was ever said. I didn't ever know he was in Santa Barbara. The last time I attempted to check up on him, he was in Arlington."

Sydney nods. There seems to be nothing else to do.

Kendall speaks up, hoping to be of some service. "I can get you the number of the doctor who performed the procedure. Her name is Lauren Reed." 


	3. Witch Doctor

  


**Chapter 3: Witch Doctor**

Flashing her badge at the receptionist, Sydney Bristow inquires about the location of Dr. Lauren Reed's office. The receptionist suspiciously eyes Sydney before disclosing the floor: Level 4, Room 461. "Do you want me to inform her you're here…," the receptionist calls out, but Sydney, who is already at the elevator, doesn't answer.

Is it possible to equally love someone and hate someone at the same time? If it's not, Sydney proves the theory wrong. She hates him. She hates that horrible, weak, selfish, little boy. He erased her. He surmised he would be better off not even remembering she existed, so poof, he erased her and now he's living in Santa Barbara and is a psychologist (what the hell?) and has this f-cking normal life. And she hates him for it. But he erased her because he couldn't live without her. He thought she had died and his world fell apart. He loved her so much that the only way he could live after her death was to pretend she had never existed; because her memories killed his soul. And she loves him for that.

The elevator doors opens. Sydney reads the sign in front of her and follows the arrows to Room 461. Beginning to rehearse what she will say to Lauren, Sydney ponders how this is going to go over. 'Hi! I'm Sydney Bristow, I'm suppose to be dead, but I'm not and I want you to give my boyfriend back his memories, pronto.'

That will have to do.

Nonetheless, she is her father's daughter. "Plan A" starts to draft itself in her mind: shock treatment, metal gurney, gun to Reed's head. It's violent and extreme, but it's never failed before.

Looking through the door window, Sydney observes an average looking blonde woman typing away at her computer. Immediately, Sydney starts to size her up: she's short… inferiority complex? Perhaps, she'll have to watch out for that. She's also eating a veggie wrap and Slim Fast, so either she's in good shape or is dieting (hopefully she is dieting -- good shape would be a negative). There are no pictures on her desk, no family or significant other? Interesting; and also unconstructive. She's probably not going to be sympathetic.

When Sydney opens the door, the woman turns around. Giving Sydney the 'once over,' she raises from her chair blown away.

"Dr. Reed?" Sydney questions, not taken aback by Lauren's reaction. "I'm…"

"Sydney Bristow," Dr. Reed finishes the sentence with a slight smirk and wisp of disbelief. Her voice hints at a significant amount of time spent in the United Kingdom. About to ask how Dr. Reed knows her name, Sydney realizes that if she did operate on Vaughn, she must be familiar with Vaughn's file, meaning she must know who she is. "Yes, Dr. Reed, I'm here because…"

Not interested in Sydney's inquiry, Lauren sparks her own. "Forgive my astonishment, but I've never seen a ghost before."

Hinting slight amusement in Lauren's tone, Sydney's instincts snap into defensive mode. "Yes, that's a long story: in a nutshell, I wasn't dead."

Lauren Reed laughs. It's a short loud shrill, sounding like a "HA-AH" before developing into a soft cackle to herself. "Really?" Lauren's smirk grows. "How ironic."

How Sydney manages to restrain herself from torturing Dr. Reed to death, the world might never know. Somehow, Sydney holds it together and gets straight to the point. "Dr. Reed, I know you performed the procedure on Michael Vaughn…"

"Yes, a very successful one." Lauren interrupts Sydney for the second time in the last few seconds. Subsequently Lauren questions, "How long have you been alive?"

"Two weeks…" Sydney replies, not anticipating the trap she just walked into.

Lauren maliciously disrupts Sydney, "And it took you that long to find me?" Lauren cocks her head. "Surprising; I would have assumed this would have been the first thing you did."

"Dr. Reed, I do not appreciate your attitude." Sydney hisses, and Lauren continues to smugly grin. The prospects for Plan A brighten. "I want to know how to reverse the procedure."

Lauren guffaws, "Why? So he can run back into your arms? Last time I checked up on him, he was engaged, Miss Bristow."

Engaged? The word stabs Sydney like a happy dagger to the heart. Her sadness mixed with Lauren's sarcasm creates a dangerous environment. Plan A has passed the preliminary stages and appears to be in good shape for enactment.

Lauren Reed gloats, and Sydney hates her. "Even if I wanted to reverse the procedure, I couldn't." Sydney perplexedly glares at the cow.

In a haughty tone (as if talking to an inferior) Lauren explains, "When I first developed this technology, I only targeted memories, not triggers. Meaning that some subjects were able to retrieve memories activated by triggers. After this discovery, I advanced the procedure -- erasing not only memories but triggers as well -- places, music, words -- anything of significance. For example, that old watch of Michael's (the one that belonged to his father) stopped working when you two met." Lauren pauses, savoring the moment. "He had it fixed; it keeps perfect time now."

Sydney slaps Lauren -- a singular violent slap which echoes throughout the entire office when Sydney's backhand strikes Lauren's face. Toppling to the floor, Lauren gasps and clinches her cheek. She glares up at Sydney, and Sydney inconspicuously gulps: any chance of getting Vaughn's memories back now appears slim. Lauren will refuse just out of spite. Sydney realizes that it's time to initiate Plan A… or maybe Plan B: find someone other than Lauren to perform the procedure. Despite Sydney's personal desires, she knows Plan B would be more effective. (With her luck, Lauren's weak body would die before she reveals the needed intel).

Lauren stands up and straightens her white lab coat. "Miss Bristow, let me make something very clear to you: I've made it impossible to reverse the effects, especially with Agent Vaughn. Not only did I remove, I added memories to ensure the deleted memories would stay that way."

"So you erased his memory and brainwashed him?" Sydney clenches her fist and spats.

"We prefer the term: conditioning."

Sydney allows, "You fucking bitch," to slip. "There has to be a way to retrieve the memories!"

"Didn't you listen? No. Michael Vaughn is my best test subject. He remembers nothing and has built a very happy and respectable life for himself. He's a complete success story. So much so in fact that I'm writing my dissertation on him. Why would you want to destroy that? I mean, if you really love him as _much_ as he _loved_ you, then wouldn't you want what's best for him?"

"This is not what's best for him."

Lauren chortles, "Of course, I suppose _you_ are what's best for him."

"I'll find a way to reverse the effects." In a threatening tone, Sydney forewarns.

Lauren matches Sydney's tone, by threatening, "He is still under CIA supervision. Stay the hell away from my test subject. If you ruin my research in any way…"

Lauren never finishes her threat. Sydney says, "He's not research; he's a human being."

With that she walks out of the office. She's settled on Plan C: screw protocol (and federal law) in all ways, shapes, and forms to make Vaughn remember not only who she is, but who he is; and in this process, terminate Lauren Reed: professionally and personally.

She'll have to call in the Big Guns for this, which might take a while. Until then, it's Plan D: go up to Santa Barbara and make Vaughn trust her (if only enough to make him willfully get in a car with her).

While Sydney calculates her plans, she has no idea that Lauren flips on her cell phone and makes a phone call. Lauren gets the voice mail and she leaves a blunt message: "We have a pending problem." 


	4. Every Breath You Take

  


**Chapter 4: Every Breath You Take**

The roadster suits him well. Every morning at 8:22AM (PST) he exits his front door, piling into his Honda for the seventeen-minute commute to his office. There he parks between the Lexus RX330 and Ford Focus SVT; getting out of his car he walks up the pathway, holds open the door for the short woman with glasses, and disappears into the office building. Monday and Thursday he dines out to lunch at the local Thai restaurant with the same man -- tall (an inch or so more than Vaughn), dark black hair, scrawny looking man with a large nose and glasses: Dr. Max Wilkinson, psychologist, associate, and friend. From a distance, Max seems jolly and entertaining for Vaughn and he constantly banter.

Tuesday and Wednesday he exclusively spends at the office. Wednesday he orders a pizza. Tuesday he has dinner at a formal restaurant with a short, curvy woman with blonde locks. Her dress flatters her well, however, he doesn't take the bait. The dinner runs smoothly, a few laughs, and he takes her home (no goodnight kiss).

Friday he replenishes his cabinets at the local farmer's market. He eats healthier than she remembers, more vegetables and fish (obviously he's not doing Atkins).

She's not stalking him. She's researching his life in order to formulate a perfect second introduction. On Friday morning he leaves his house at 8:22AM (PST) and Sydney waits across the street. She watches the roadster stop at the sign, and turn right towards the highway. Waiting, she prepares to get out of her car and actually do this.

She crosses the street as if she's heading towards the beach, and then on his property skulks around to his back door. It's locked, but she picks the lock and enters. The alarm starts to go off, saying she has a minute before it will automatically place a call to the operator.

She snaps out of her daydream. Sitting in her car, she watches him drive away. She bangs her hands against the steering wheel, cursing (Cameron would be proud). Sydney drops her head and sighs. This is ridiculous. She can't keep stalking her boyfriend (technically they didn't break up) who doesn't know she exists; moreover she can't utter that sentence out loud because people will believe she's loco. Staring at his house, she desires to break in, look around, find some token to give her hope.

She curses and turns the car on, deciding to aimlessly drive for a few hours. Uninspiring thoughts clutter her mind; she takes a right and drives, then takes a left and drives more; she fiddles with the radio station, not recognizing half of the music. Great, just another reminder of what she lost. At the red light, she takes out the business card Vaughn give her, reading it over for the millionth time

She should march right down to his office and beat the sh-t out of him. She should knock out a tooth for erasing her, and break a bone for turning her into some pining loser, and crack his skull just because. Granted, going in there violent and screaming would only make the situation worse (even if it would feel damn good).

She eyes the clock, it's nearly four and he would be at the market soon. Today she's going to do it. She's going to get out of car. She walks into the market with her sunglasses on and picks up a basket. Idly, she checks her watch and hunts for him.

In the herbal tea section she spots him. When did he give up coffee? Actually the better question is: how did he give up coffee? She used to believe she wasn't a morning person, but she was damn Mary Sunshine compared to him if he didn't get his coffee. He pivots and looks her way; she freezes. He stops, however doesn't acknowledge her and disappears into another aisle.

In a sense this is petty and childish. She's a giggling teenager again tailing the cute guy in the mall. When he gets his memories back, she's kicking his ass; that's final. First round is for erasing her and second round is for degrading her to this -- in the fifth, his ass goes down. Yet, she represses all her anger, because he doesn't remember her. There's no point at being angry with someone who doesn't remember why you're angry with him. It's unproductive. She needs to get him to trust her; not hospitalize her for a mental disorder. Memory first, anger second.

Oh God, oh God; he walks towards her. Sydney immediately turns and finds the lettuce fascinating. His presence alerts her senses…

"Excuse me," He reaches over her to Romaine and grabs a head. Damn him; he smiles, "Thanks."

She ogles, at a lost for words. Vaughn chortles and walks away. He disappears before Sydney turns around. Heading off in the other direction, she doesn't notice a note in her basket until she's in Breads. Vaughn's chicken scratch appears on the paper. She reads and stops dead in her tracks.

And she's supposed to be super spy.

Not until Max and his baseball game does she see him again. From a distance she watches him play catcher; he's quite good, getting in the double play to finish the bottom of the fifth inning. The light mood of the game entertains Sydney; the tensest moment is Vaughn and Max screaming at each other in the third for reasons unknown to her. Max storms into the dugout and Vaughn ignores him. The incident blows over by the sixth when Max has to leave and he and Vaughn part on amicable terms. After the game a young boy of eight or nine walks back to the parking lot with Vaughn; the kid keeps Vaughn laughing. Sydney loses sight of them when they peter out into the parking lot.

The diner claims to have the best short stack of chocolate chip pancakes East of the Mississippi. That's a bold statement. Sydney orders a short stack with a side order of whipped cream and home fries. The clock on the wall reads 8:55AM (PST).

Showtime: two voices -- one familiar and one not -- echo behind her.

"I'm serious, Man. That is the last time I cover for Kerr."

His voice tiredly responses, "You're not preaching to death ears. I agree; and if we are I want a raise. I was on the phone with for two hours last week with Sid Harrison."

Max Wilkinson guffaws, "That's rough; I thought she hated you? Yet you didn't have to leave your son at a baseball game. Alone. With you."

Ah. Ha. That's who the kid was.

"She does hate me, she cursed me half of the time, and all I wanted to do is scream 'it's just a snake!'. As for Leo, I'd be more concerned he has a father who choose to leave him alone with me instead of taking him to the office with him."

"Man, you have got to get over your prejudice towards phobics."

"I don't have a prejudice towards phobics." Vaughn snaps before Max can retort about Leo.

"Yes, yes do. I mean, these people have a brain imbalance and…"

"Max, stop being a smart ass. I suppose I just don't fear anything; the only thing to fear is fear itself, right."

"You fucking hypocrite, no wonder you don't work with phobics." Max remarks, "Let me remind you: you hate spiders."

Vaughn shudders, "Nasty fuckers. Tiny and eight legged. Blah. Still, I am not afraid of them. I just kill it and go on with my day."

"Great advice for Mrs. Harrison."

"I was tempted to tell her to go buy a riding lawn mower."

Max burst out laughing. "Right."

"It works wonders, my mother use to do it all the time. Find the snake and let the mover do all the work."

"That's sadistic. We're about ready to eat."

The pile of food Sydney orders arrives. She listens to Max and Vaughn order: Vaughn orders eggs, sausage, and hash browns; and Max orders the deluxe breakfast without the ham steak. Vaughn's meal surprises Sydney considering her experience Friday at the market.

Max speaks first after the waitress leaves. "Oh, and how dare you accuse me of being a bad father?"

"Don't twist my words, I simply said I wouldn't leave my kid. You wouldn't want him to develop a psychological disorder at twenty, because you abandoned him in the park."

"I didn't abandon him; Jesus, you Freudians are always putting a negative spin the situation. Additionally, you don't have a kid, so you don't know: sometimes you have to leave them for an hour. I always come back though."

Anxiously, Sydney waits for Vaughn's response. He doesn't give it immediately. Max shudders, "I'm sorry… I didn't mean…"

"Fuck you."

"I didn't mean…" Max's voice trails off. A few minutes pass and they don't speak to each other. Sydney picks at her home fries and thinks they need ketchup.

Max finally speaks, "That's disgusting."

"Why?" Vaughn retorts, slightly pissy. "You put ketchup on French fries, which are made up of potatoes -- if you make your own. There's not a lot of actual potato in that shit they serve at McDonald's. Hash browns are also potatoes, just cooked differently."

"I'm talking about the eggs."

"Obliviously you're never been to Pennsylvania."

"Obliviously I don't want to."

Vaughn laughs. Sydney smiles.

"So…" Max changes the topic. "Have you talked to the Wicked Witch of the West?"

"Yes, and she wants her Clash EP before she becomes the Wicked Witch of the East."

"When that?"

"Not soon enough."

Max laughs; he curtly informs. "Abby's home."

Vaughn doesn't response. "Oh." "'Oh'?"

"Well, what do you expect me to say?" Vaughn snaps. Sydney wonders who Abby is, and the Wicked Witch…

"I don't know, but when that girl left for the DNC --"

"Ethiopia --"

"-- You were heartbroken."

Sydney doesn't like Abby.

"Hey, she did what she had to do. I wasn't going to stop her."

"Liar."

"Look, Max, she choose the job --"

Sydney's stomach flips, nausea overwhelming her, and she believes it has nothing to do with the pound of food she just ate.

"-- She wanted to save the world from AIDS. She did. She went to the place where the streets have no name, and I respect her for that. All right. It's over."

"Whatever. I just surmised you'd want to know. She's single again."

"And it's been two fucking years. We're different people!"

Sydney's heart sinks and she chokes on juice. That's not true. His comments are bullsh-t. Total bullshit.

There's silence form Vaughn's booth; it remains quiet for an uncomfortable amount of time until Max exclaims, "The brunette in the red tank top?"

"Oh, for fucksakes!" Vaughn hisses, dropping his voice to a barely audible whisper Sydney strains to hear. "Okay, do you remember that woman I told you about? Sydney Bristow?"

"The raving lunatic?"

She is NOT a raving lunatic… There's more silence before Max exclaims, "You never mentioned how incredibility gorgeous she is."

Sydney smiles despite the situation.

"Sorry, her behavior preoccupied me."

Sydney's smile fades.

"What did you say she was again? Delusional, fantasy-prone personality with some form of disassociate disorder: amnesia or DID?"

"Fugue, possible PTSD, maybe DID."

"And she claimed to know you?'

"She claimed we met at the CIA."

"Ha! You working for the CIA."

"What is that suppose to mean?" Vaughn seems offended (as he should be) by the slur.

"I could never see it -- you're way too anal-retentive, way too rational. Mike, now we'll need you to spy the leader of this country. You would be like, why? Is there a clear purpose for this? Is this ethical? Does this have something to do with my subconscious? My childhood?"

"Actually it's called Recon."

"And you have an attitude problem."

"Shut up, she's right over there. She's been stalking me for the past week."

"What?"

"Well, at least I think she has. I keep seeing the same car tailing me, always a woman driving: different hair, cute wigs and stuff, but still the same body shape and all. Plus, she was in the market Friday."

How does he know that? She is one of the most skilled CIA agents ever; she nearly single handedly took down the Alliance. However, she can't tail Michael Vaughn. Oh, wait… it's Michael Vaughn.

"Are you serious?"

"Dead."

"Let's call her over."

What to do? If she runs, he'll know she listened in and will know she's "stalking" him. Trapped…

"Right, to familiarizes her more with my life." Max doesn't listen; instead he turns to Sydney and waves. Sydney doesn't pay attention, and Max continues, "Sydney!" He motions for her to come over. Vaughn groans.

Sydney looks over to the booth. Max waves, Vaughn tries to get the waitress's attention. "Are you out of your f-cking mind?" Vaughn inquires out of the corner of this mouth…

Walking over to the booth, Sydney nervously smiles, "Hello?"

Max extends his hand and shakes hers. "I'm Max Wilkinson."

"Sydney Bristow" she replies.

"Agent Sydney Bristow." Vaughn corrects, sarcastically.

Sydney glares at him, retorting in the same tone. "Dr. Michael Vaughn."

Max snickers, unable to resist: "So you're CIA?"

Sydney wipes out her badge and hands it to Max who looks and it over; Vaughn snatches it and examines it knowing exactly what to look for, without actually knowing. It's legit. He hands it back to Sydney.

"Well, if you are CIA why are you flashing your badge around?" He inquires.

Sydney frowns. Vaughn continues, "Moreover, you're not a peculiarly good agent, you've been tailing me all week: the blonde in the market; the redhead at the deli; the beatnik who reminded me too much of Dylan for my liking."

"Vaughn," Sydney starts.

"Why are you following me?"

"Are you dangerous?" Max quips.

"I'm not dangerous." Sydney retorts without removing her glare from Vaughn. "Vaughn -- please -- I'm not lying, I'm not crazy. If you just come with me I can prove to you…"

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"_Vaughn_!"

Max says under his breath. "You never said she was unstable."

Vaughn replies, "You're not quick on the subtext today?"

"I AM NOT UNSTABLE!"

"Okay" Vaughn nods.

"Please!" Sydney barely holds it together. "I need you to believe me." She repeats, "I'm not crazy."

Compassion overtakes Vaughn. "Do you really believe that Syd?"

She could sing; he called her Syd. "Yes."

"Okay, I'll strike you a deal. If you want me to go with you to the CIA, you have to prove to me you're not crazy by taking a psych evaluation."

"And if I pass?"

"We'll take it from there."

Sydney agrees, "I want you to do the evaluation."

"No, Dr. Wilkinson will do it."

"No, you." She retorts firmly.

"Syd, frankly, I think you're crazy. If you want to be deemed sane, you have a better chance with Max."

Max smiles. "I don't bite."

Sydney pauses. "Fine."

"Good." Vaughn says, "We'll start tomorrow." 


	5. Case of You

  


**Chapter 5: Case of You**

They don't budge. _All documents concerning Agent Vaughn are classified Omega-17._ Even Dixon doesn't have clearance. He claims he'll see what he can do, but that's an empty promise. At the door, Dixon informs Dr. Barnett called this morning and encouraged Sydney to stop by; even if she's busy, she'll make the time.

Sydney mutters something and thanks Dixon. At least he remembers the meaning of compassion and friendship, the rest of her fellow agents leave something to be desired, especially Weiss, who has given her the cold shoulder since her return. He's cordial and civil, but he's not Weiss. She supposes the five years f-cked all of them pretty bad, not just Vaughn and her. Luring him into the corner, she clicks her pen and questions whom to approach to contact her mother. Weiss absconds.

Unable to handle more shrinks, she decides not to take Dr. Barnett up on her offer. Instead she makes her way out of the Joint Task Force until further notice. She's not returning without Vaughn; Dixon okayed "the mission", there's not much else he can do. Walking past Marshall's office, she observes him slaving over his new gadget. He calls her in. Her appointment with Max and Vaughn is in three hours, she really needs leave; nevertheless, she smiles and inquires what he wants.

"Syd, uh I am sorry, really; and I've been thinking, right, trying to think of a way to help you out…"

"Marshall, that's very sweet of you but…"

"I tried running my own searches, but, man Dr. Reed, right, she really is secretive, like the Second Death Star secretive."

"I really --"

Awkwardly he forces a folded sheet of paper at Sydney. Unfolding it, she reads the print out, and looks up to Marshall, questioning if he's serious.

"I just thought, I know, I mean, But, it might…."

"--Need to go." She hastens out of the office, and out of the CIA. The heavy traffic leaving the city causes her to arrive at 12:59 P.M. for her 1:00 P.M. appointment.

The short woman with glasses sits behind the desk; Vaughn signs forms while he fires instructions at her. "I'm going to need to you change Miss Collins appointment to Thursday. And get hold of Dr. Kerr."

"And tell him what?" Her voice oozes with sarcasm, which he matches.

"Historical donkeys are working animals."

Rolling her eyes, Kristen nods before declaring, "The Wicked Witch called while you were in with Mr. Robbins."

Vaughn looks up, horrified. "And?"

She shrugs, "She bitched and said she'd call back."

Vaughn suppresses a few choice words. "She calls back, I'm with a patient."

"Wicked Witch?" Sydney inquires, surprising Vaughn and "Kristen" (she reads the name tag).

Kristen laughs; Vaughn's not as amused, "Miss Bristow, right on time."

"We're going to need you to fill out some forms." Kristen begins to hand Sydney a clipboard.

Vaughn interrupts, "Actually, we'll do that after; Dr. Wilkinson wants to begin immediately."

Vaughn signals Sydney to follow him. She does so. He looks back, and reminds Kristen, "I'm with a patient."

Kristen sighs.

"So, who is she?" Sydney shatters the awkwardness, with more awkwardness.

"Whom is who?"

"The Wicked Witch? An ex-girlfriend?" Sydney asks. Or ex-fiancé? She hopes.

"You could say that." Vaughn responses offhandedly, allowing, "we were engaged" to slip.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Sydney responses, not hiding her joy well.

He picks up on it. "I thought spies were adroit liars."

Sydney blushes.

They enter a conference room where Max waits, going over some files and preparing for Sydney's appointment.

"Miss Bristow!" He jollily greets her (at least someone still has a sense of humor).

"Dr. Wilkinson, how are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm peachy. You?"

"I'm fine." Lie. Over the years, Sydney has taken a few psych evaluations: one when she joined SD6, one when she became a double agent, one when the DSR believed she was the prophetic woman on page forty-seven. All of them she's pasted. She has no intension to fail this one.

"Great, we ready to prove Mike wrong?"

Sydney nods. Vaughn starts to exit.

"Aren't you staying?" She questions in a tone wanting him to stay.

"No. Dr. Wilkinson is capable. You're in good hands."

He shuts the door.

Before Max starts the evaluation, Sydney gives him her agent identification number and tells him to call Director Marcus Dixon. Jotting down the number, he pages Kristen and asks her to verify it. A taken-aback Kristen doesn't protest.

The first half of the evaluation they perform a series of tests: ink blots, feel in the blanks, pictures identification, verbal and mathematical reasoning. All of her answers reveal nothing: every one chosen with a purpose, none of them arousing red flags. About forty-five minutes in, the test has been going well until they came to a picture what looked like the Rambaldi code. She pauses longer then she should have, allowing the memories to return; nearly permitting her voice to crack she gives a standard answer.

She never truly knew how slippery the slope is; now she knows: she trips up on more questions, and nearly openly weeps when she a picture of a little girl on her father's shoulders. She needs a minute to regain her composure, however Max piles on the questions.

Finally Sydney asks to stop. She pauses for a second; goes to the restroom; composes herself; returns to the room. Max switches tactics, now wanting to know about her life: the demographics, her hereditary, the CIA, and most of all Vaughn.

Fuck. If she lies they will know it and if she doesn't they will believe she is crazy. She tells Max vague details, and the honest truth about the CIA and Vaughn: it's classified. This intrigues Max, and they discuss back and forth why. Sydney grows exasperated, and finally snaps: "Because Vaughn is CIA!" when Max inquires why she's willing to discuss classified matters with his associate, but not him.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

They talk more, about random things, yet the conversation leads back to Vaughn.

"Why do you call him Vaughn?"

"Excuse me?"

"Mike, you call him Vaughn; why?"

"I don't know; habit, uh." Sydney inhales. "Uh… it just… habit."

Max nods, "I think that will do." Excusing himself, he exits and leaves Sydney alone to rethink her stupidity. He'll never believe her now. She failed. He'll never believer her. Fuck. Shit. Fucking A.

Half an hour later Max calls Sydney into his office. She takes a seat; Vaughn hangs behind her near the door.

"Miss Bristow, after discussing it Dr. Vaughn, I agree with an early assumption that you're suffering from disassociate disorder -- to be determined in later session -- from a traumatic event, which is causing delusions."

"I'm not delusional."

"I called the CIA," Vaughn reports, "The clearance code you gave us doesn't work."

"That's impossible, I was there earlier this morning. Did you talk to Director Dixon?"

"No," Vaughn says. "I called the number you provided us and received the office of the Assistant Deputy Director of Operations for Los Angeles, Agent Smith."

"But you didn't talk to Marcus Dixon?"

"I was unable to reach Marcus Dixon."

"Talk to Dixon! He'll confirm my story!"

"Miss Bristow, the other concern I have --" Max begins.

"I have a couple concerns of my own."

"Syd," Vaughn placates her outburst. "What Dr. Wilkinson is trying to say is: if you are truly work for Central Intelligence and experienced a traumatic episode, why aren't you seeking help through a CIA psychoanalyst or psychiatrist that would permit you to disclose classified gaps of your story."

"So, you think I'm crazy?"

"We never said you were crazy; nor do I believe that. However, you have a severe creditability gap. I suggest you listen to Dr. Wilkinson."

She complies. Sydney forces her attention back to Max, "Miss Bristow I'm suggesting you seek treatment…"

"I don't need treatment."

"It's my professional opinion, you have sessions with Dr. Vaughn at least three times a week."

"What?" Sydney turns to Vaughn, who doesn't look thrilled.

Sydney looks at Max, relishing in her triumph. She never thought of this: _purposely_ failing to have sessions with him, sessions in which she can convince him she's not crazy. Hot damn, she couldn't have planned it better herself! Smirking, she says, "When do start?" 


	6. Bang Bang: My Baby Shot Me Down

  


**Chapter 6: Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)**

For the past week, she has been trekking up to Santa Barbara to meet with Vaughn: three sessions down and God only knows how many to go. Plain and simple: her current stalemate sucks. Arriving at quarter to one for her one o'clock appointment, she checked in with Kristen and exasperatedly thumbed through a magazine. Kristen observes Sydney from behind the desk as she schedules appointments on the phone. At 1:00, Vaughn paged Kristen. She informed Sydney that Dr. Vaughn will see her now.

"First door at the top of the stairs."

Sydney nodded at Kristen, following her directions and making her way through the renovated Victorian they converted into offices. The door to his office was open; she knocked and walked in. It's tastefully decorated in a navy blue color scheme; additionally she imagined he won a game of rock, paper, scissors with Max, because the beautiful bay window boasted a superb view.

"Hello." She greeted.

Sitting at his desk, Vaughn gazed up at her, "Afternoon." They silently communicated back and forth about where Sydney should sit: ultimately she plopped down on the couch. "Do people usually lay down or sit up?"

Vaughn chuckled, "Whatever floats your boat."

"I'll sit up," she decided, propping up against a pillow.

Not starting immediately, Vaughn stared at Sydney for a few moments. She mused whether this was how he began all sessions or just hers. More silence and discomfort occurred until she chose to stare out the window while he stared at her. Finally, probably in a sheer act of desperation, he cleared his throat, "I want to do some word association."

This was absurd. "Alright."

He flipped to a clean sheet of paper and initiated to scribble down his words as well as her responses. He started: "Night."

"Pier." Which was not a total attempt at a lie to get him interested, but one of her favorite places to go after sunset.

He flatly continued (still avoiding her eyes), "Santa Monica."

"Beeper."

_"You just threw your beeper in the Pacific."_

"Technology."

"Zamboni."

_"No, coming home with you after the game is my favorite part"_

"Ice."

"Hockey."

_"Then maybe we can go to that hockey game."_

He based his word selection on her responses. She devised to use her theory to her advantage; that was until he blew it out of the water with his next word: "Home."

Upset, she retorts, "Destroyed."

_"You're house was destroyed, presumably with you and your friends inside."_

"Fire."

"Bomb."

_"What we saw... at the church... every time we think we've seen the worst…"_

"Weapon."

"Nuclear."

_"You called SD-6 instead of the C.I.A.! That is unacceptable! You should've called me!"_

The correlation returned, he must change directions every four or five words. He proved her new theory correct when he said: "White."

"Lights." More specifically, ferris wheel lights.

"I'm sorry to call you, I just didn't know who else to call."

"Black."

"Darkness."

_"In this job, you see darkness..."_

"Red."

Are we going through the colors now? Do these damn things actually have a purpose? -- other than to reopen her wounds. None of her responses elicited reactions from him. Lauren must have been more aware of Vaughn's memories than Sydney believed. She must dig deeper, be more obvious.

"Bozo Hair."

_"When you first walked into my office with that stupid Bozo hair, I thought you were crazy."_

Sydney's heart broke: how appropriate. He resumed, still oblivious; and abandoned the colors. "Hate."

"Sloane."

_"I just wanted to rip his finger right off again."_

"Love."

"You."

_"Ask yourself, would you betray someone you love?"_

That got a reaction from him: mortification. He hesitated before writing it down. He let it pass, and radically changed the theme. "Meetings."

"Warehouse."

_"Your counter mission is…"_

"Appointments."

"Barnett."

"Judy?" Looking up at Sydney for the first time, Vaughn stopped the word association and directly inquired.

For a moment, Sydney felt a flash of triumph. Did she bring a memory forth? Excitedly, she leaned forward and inquired, "How did you know that?"

"She's a psychiatrist in Los Angeles who I've worked with before." Vaughn enlightened, "She also taught one of my graduate courses."

God. Damn. It. Frustrated at her quick assumption, she shook her head. It wasn't going to be that easy. "No, she's the CIA psychiatrist."

"Syd, I have no way to confirm that."

There it was again: the distracting and painful 'Syd' he occasionally allowed to slip. "You could call the number I gave you."

"I did. It doesn't work."

Sydney snapped, "Try again. Or, let me try."

"No, Sydney…"

"Why the hell not?"

He didn't need to answer her. Sydney realized why. Leaning back on the couch, she digested her frustration and sadness. "You don't believe me. You think I'm some fruitcake. You want to institutionalize me. You might feel a slight bit of compassion for me, but it wouldn't change the fact that to you, I never even existed."

"You don't need to be institutionalized," Vaughn commented quickly, while he tapped his pen slowly against his pad. "I think we should continue."

Choking up, she batted her eyelashes in an attempt to maintain her dignity. She won't speak, that would reveal how his conduct tortured her. Glancing over at him, she refused to get her hopes built up just to be shattered again by convincing herself that there's a hint of heartache in his eyes. She cleared her throat, "No. I think it's my turn."

"What?"

"I have some questions to ask you."

"Uh..." Vaughn paused, tossed aside his legal pad, and agreed. "Okay."

"Tolstoy."

_"It's like Tolstoy long."_

"Long." He responsed.

"Dentist."

_"You need a dentist. Do you have one? Because I can get you a name."_

"Pain."

Does he remember or does he just not like the dentist?

"Torture."

_"I've got bad news for you, man. I'm your worst enemy. I've got nothing to lose."_

Vaughn wrinkled his forehead. "More pain."

Damn it, he just doesn't like the dentist.

"Invisible Friend."

_"Who am I talking to? ... You're invisible friend."_

"Childhood."

"Guardian Angel."

_"My guardian angel."_

"Saint Michael."

"What?" That's not funny, if he thought that was funny, he did not know funny. Was he mocking her?

"Saint Michael, the patron Saint in Catholicism. He battled Lucifer; he's considered the primer Guardian."

Fucking Dogma. Frustrated she moved along: "Past."

"Future."

"That's too obvious. You're not answering me truthfully; I answered you."

Vaughn fired back, "That was the first thing I thought of; but, fine."

Max was right in the coffee shop; he does have an attitude problem.

"Vatican"

_"Yeah, I'll break into the Vatican with you."_

"Rome."

"Trattoria di Nardi"

_"Well, the food's so good it's almost worth the risk."_

"Italian."

"Nice."

_"I am hungry. I'm starving. I mean, we're going to be together anyway, why can't we be eating? Aren't you hungry?"_

"France."

"Rambaldi."

_"Da Vinci meets Nostradamus -- personally, I don't buy it."_

"ET."

"ET?" What the fuck?

"Carlo Rambaldi; effects artist."

She brushed away the random factoid, "Manchurian Candidate."

Taken aback, he paused and narrowed his eyes. "Frank Sinatra."

"October 1st."

_"It stopped on October 1st. The Day we met."_

"Palindromic number."

That killed her.

The day they met was just a palindromic number to him. She almost openly wept at his response, however her pride prevailed. After that he declared the meeting was over; that was the first session. The second session got slightly better until her story caused him to request her to stop calling him "Vaughn." She was definitely getting to him, just not in the way she wanted to get to him. The third was like the second, more talking and questions.

And now she's here for her fourth appointment, another stalemate for sure. Sydney knows the routine by now and is already climbing the stairs when Vaughn pages Kristen.

Showtime.

He sits in a chair, without his legal pad (which he never used again since the word association). He smiles and she takes her seat on the couch; at least they perfected the standard welcome.

"Hello."

"Hi."

"How are you today?"

"I'm better, you?"

"Can't complain." Vaughn nods. "So, what do you want to talk about?"

"Shouldn't you be calling the shots here? After all, I'm certifiable." Sydney retorts a tad snider then she meant.

Vaughn smiles, "No. Not today."

Sydney jumps on the opportunity he presents her; she will lead the discussion, and she'll bombard him with triggers for every second of their time together. "How's Donovan?"

Vaughn tries to hide his surprise. Sydney tries to hide her triumphant grin. "Your dog."

"He's fine." Vaughn slowly says, "Old and pudgy, but healthy."

"That's good; he was always adorable." Sydney answers honestly. Today will be a good day. She contemplates her next move, and opts to question: "Vaughn, do you keep a diary?"

"Sydney, I don't believe that's any of your business."

"Sorry. I ask because I have heard that it is therapeutic to keep a diary or daily journal. You being a therapist and all, that seems like a legitimate question. Plus, your dad kept a diary, though you told him that only girls kept diaries."

Vaughn doesn't initially react. "What do you base your assumptions on?"

"What makes you think they're assumptions?"

"Considering I never told you those details of my life, I assume they are assumptions. Of course, you do know what they say about assuming."

"Exactly, Vaughn: don't make an ass out of yourself. What makes you think you never told me? Then again, maybe I'm a psychic like your Aunt Trish: the crop circle worshipper, the 'crazy one' in the family. Did she ever have sessions with you?"

Sydney observes him half smirk, unnerved, and half nod before saying, "I thought we decided that you were going to address me as Dr. Vaughn."

"No." Sydney curtly retorts. Reiterating, she presses the issue: "What makes you believe you never told me?"

"I think I never told you, because I have no memory of telling you; and memories are the only truths that we have."

"That's not true."

"You don't believe so? Why not?"

"Because you have no personal memory of…" Sydney says the first thing they pops into her mind, "Uh… the Civil War, but the Civil War definitely happened."

"Yes, however all of those have tangible sources -- diaries, pictures, letters - which validate a soldier's memory."

"Well," Damn, he does have a point. "Well, what about the things the solider forgot to mention. Does that mean they didn't happen?"

"Perhaps it does; or perhaps it means they were so negligible that it doesn't matter."

That was low. She won't give him the satisfaction of seeing her visually hurt, however her voice reveals truly how much she resents his remark. "I think you're wrong. You theory is just a defense mechanism for not accepting what I have to say to be true and that those memories don't exist anymore."

"And why don't these memories exist anymore?"

For the past four days she's been going over their pending conversation in her head. He will not react well, and she's been avoiding the topic like the plague, because she doesn't want to lie either. However, today he directly questioned her, meaning, she needs to answer. Truthfully.

"Because the CIA erased them."

"Erased them?" He repeats, and she nods.

"Okay." He's calm, but his tone is disbelieving. "How, furthermore, when and why did they do this?"

"Truth?" Sydney leans forward, moving closer to him. Is this more psychoanalyzing? He's remaining more composed than she imagined he would. Whether he's truly interested or not, she answers. "You thought I died, and you couldn't handle that. Your depression was beyond the point of drug therapy or psychological help, to such an extent that you were a danger to yourself. The CIA felt you would be a good candidate for a newly invented technique to remove specific memories from your brain."

"Memories of you; of us?"

Sydney nods.

"Your death."

"My supposed death."

Vaughn imbibes what Sydney says for a moment. He gets up and paces the room, before looking out the window. Sydney tentatively rises from the couch.

Slowly, he says, "You died in a fire."

"So it seemed."

Shakily, he says, "There was nothing left... Not even a body to cling too... Just ash... And a few bones... and..."

Sydney freezes. That is actual pain that she is hearing. Could it be true? She moves closer, "Yes, they identified the body through DNA found in the teeth."

She dares to move closer, as he continues, "I dropped you off... and I remember thinking that if I'd come in with you... Or if you hadn't gone in... If you had just spent the night at my place... if .... then… You wouldn't have died... I could've stopped it somehow... I was so careful before.. "

"Vaughn..." her voice cracks. She almost can't believe what she's hearing.

"It was my fault... I just couldn't accept that... It wasn't fair... Your friend lived and you died, I couldn't understand... I..." She grips his hand and they move closer to each other. An embrace that Sydney had expected to receive last week in his home. "It was my fault…" She silences him with a kiss and a whisper, "It wasn't your fault."

"What wasn't my fault?" Vaughn asks, snapping Sydney out of her daydream. She stares at him, blushing. Oh. No. How much of that had she said out loud? Bitterness takes over, and she says quickly, "Nothing."

Vaughn reiterates. "The CIA erased my memory?"

She sighs, feeling a sense of déjà vu. She repeats what she had informed him in her daydream.

"Why would the CIA care about my personal issues?"

"Because they're your co-workers, but many of them are also your friends."

"It seems extreme."

"Your situation was extreme."

"Why am I not still working for the CIA?"

That's a damn good question, one that she doesn't even have the answer to. "They couldn't let you remember anything once you'd gone through with the procedure --"

"Then why didn't they just transfer me to a different department?"

"It was too much of a risk if you stayed. Plus, in order for you to forget what you needed to, most of your time at the CIA was erased."

"How long did we know each other?"

"Two years."

"And how long did I work for the CIA before that."

"You joined in 1994."

"So about a decade." He rounds off the numbers, "You're insinuating I don't remember a decade of my life."

"Vaughn, the doctor conditioned you not to remember."

"You mean brainwashed me."

Sydney's facial expression says, 'you could put it that way'. "Vaughn, I'm not lying. I need you to believe me."

"Why?"

"Because what we had is important to me, not something I'll easily let go of."

He ignores her innuendos and steers the conversation elsewhere. "So from a CIA agent to a psychologist? That's quite a jump..."

Sydney composes herself and thinks. "Well, you always were a good listener."

"So, it doesn't have anything do with my mother being in the field."

Sydney shakes her head. Vaughn presses on, "But you already knew that, right."

Sydney shakes her head again, "You rarely talked about your mother. You just mentioned your father. And how you wanted to follow in his footsteps and join the CIA."

"My father was a Lieutenant Colonial in the U.S. Army." He shoots her down.

She shakes her head. She can't believe this. "No he wasn't," she whispers.

Vaughn looks at his watch, and then at the clock. He rises from his chair and heads towards the door. "Time's up." He opens the door -- she gets the hint.

Defeated, she gets to her feet and passes by him to exit the office. She looks at him, and lowers her eyes. Then she sees it: the band around his left wrist that she recognizes all too well.

That bitch told her it was fixed. "Your watch stopped."

He hesitates, looking down at it and then back to her.

She nods, knowingly. "Why didn't you get it fixed? I mean, it used to keep perfect time and it was a gift from your father. Why wouldn't you get something like that fixed?"

"Because I haven't had time to get it fixed."

She smirks. "You haven't gotten it fixed because of something your father told you. He said 'you could set your heart by this watch.' And that makes you wonder..."

"My father never said that."

"Didn't he?"

"No."

"But I was right about everything else."

"Yes, the watch stopped."

"When?"

"Uhh... about a week ago..."

"The day I came to your door?"

"I don't know. I went to put it on one day and it wasn't working."

Sydney nods, knowing the answer in her heart; and for the first time in two weeks a foreign emotional sweeps over her: hope. 


	7. Crazy

  


**Chapter 7: (You Drive Me) Crazy**

For the past week Michael Vaughn has met with his new patient: Sydney Bristow. Two weeks ago she shocked him by knocking on his door, running into his arms, and sobbing incoherent drivel about the CIA and her father and him. Does he naturally magnetize crazed women? He is a psychologist, that explains it somewhat. But can't he find someone normal like maybe Kristen? Vaughn snorts realizing how quickly he'd bore -- for all the trouble they're worth, the more eccentric and passionate and mysterious the woman, the harder he falls. Sydney doesn't disappoint. Wow…what a fucked up insane enigma.

Finding her equally fascinating and unnerving, he studies her every movement -- tucking her hair behind her ear, the slight head tilt when she grins, her nose crinkle at bewilderment. Her voice wrestles to stay composed and strong. Her resolve impresses him for she only breaks when (of all things) she discusses their supposed relationship. Vaughn avoids the topic as best he can, but he kids himself into believing that he can avoid it all together. Can he see himself dating Sydney Bristow?

Sure… after all he nearly married Dylan Bradford. But he didn't really love Dylan, it just seemed right at the time. They had been dating off and on for a couple years, neither was getting any younger, and both fervently detested each other equally. He stayed with Dylan because of Abby; because Abby left him in the rain with just a note at the train station, and Dylan was the next girl to come along. He really loved Abby, even if she causes symptoms of an acid trip. If Sydney is an enigma, Abby is a mirage.

Sydney. What will he do with Sydney? She sent him over the edge today. Vaughn paces his office, rubbing the back of his neck and reviewing today's session. There's nothing in particular to gaze at as he stares out his window. _"You thought I died and you couldn't handle that… you were a danger to yourself… The CIA felt you would be good candidate… to remove specific memories."_

He doesn't buy it. He's had his share of girlfriends and he's liked them all, maybe even loved some, but none -- not even Abby - has stirred up in him the kind of love Sydney describes. Part of him doubts his capability to love in that manner, even though Sydney -- he doesn't know what Sydney does.

_"He said 'you could set your heart by this watch.' … Yes, the watch stopped… The day I came to your door? …I don't know. I went to put it on one day and it wasn't working._ Technically it stopped after he pushed her out his door. His father never said that; he remembers every detail of his father and the time they spent together before his death -- he did not say that. His mother gave him the watch after his father's funeral. That's one of the few incorrect details though. Sydney was right on the money with most -- the dog, the aunt, the diary -- but not the watch.

How does she know so much about him, and he know so little about her? She filled out her forms with a P.O. Box, and his investigations have turned up nothing but dead ends. No files, no police records, no birth certificate, no medical records. Sydney Bristow does not exist. So who is she really?

He and Max need to have an immediate pow-wow. Leaving his office, he strolls down the hall to barge into Max's office. The sweet sounds of Mr. Blue Sky reverberate through the office until Vaughn turns off the radio. Not pleased, Max stares at Vaughn questioning what that was for.

"I'm done. No more of your sick mind games."

Max doesn't seem phased. He expects this. Vaughn observes his friend suppressing a grin, which infuriates him. Max and Vaughn glare at each other for a moment until Max throws up his hands in defense. "Okay."

"This is psychological warfare: everything she says has an alternative meaning. She's playing me, and I'm playing her and we're at a stalemate."

"I stand by my decision. Something traumatic happened to Miss Bristow, which she won't tell me. She will not tell anyone but you. She needs your help. You're going to be her psychologist, and you're still going to see her three to four times a week."

"I know, I know, but it's still too awkward. Too crazy. And how in the hell am I suppose to stay professional when I just want to tell her she's a neurotic nut and kick her out of my office? No, not just kick her out, but get a restraining order. She's clearly a delusional who knows her capabilities. This woman needs serious help, which I can't give."

"I disagree. Anyway -- think of the challenge of it. This case is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Hell, I wish she was obsessed with me! It's fascinating."

"You can have her."

"I would if I could, but I can't so I won't -- because she only wants you."

Vaughn settles into a chair, "Why? I've never met her before in my life."

"Really? She almost had me convinced otherwise."

"What did she tell you?"

"Plenty." Max titters, "You two were hot and heavy, and not just in the sexual way. You should hear her go on about you, Mike -- major knight in shining armor complex. Her guardian angel, her rock, her axis, her constant, her North. I'm impressed. So much so in fact that 'if I were a woman, and I were not around, I should be in love with you'."

Barely believing the story Max is retelling, Vaughn comments. "Good movie, go on."

"Your basic double agent-handler spy romance followed. All those countermission meetings sparked the undeniable: think Romeo and Juliet. But there was Comedy Tonight and when you took down some international crime syndicate, the two of you literally started making out right then and there in the ramshackled office building. Very sexy. She wouldn't tell me how or why -- because of it being classified and a matter of National Security. You know, typical spook stuff -- but she disappeared for five years and now she's back and you don't remember her. That's what I know of your presumed relationship."

A twinkle appears in Max's eyes. Damn it, Sydney has worked her magic on him, too. Curtly, Vaughn retorts, "She claims that the CIA erased my memory."

"WHAT?" Max jolts, not expecting that. Leaning forward, Vaughn nods. WHAT? Vaughn's reaction precisely.

"Because the CIA erased them, Max. That is her story. The CIA erased my memory, and not just a moment or a week, right? No, they erased ten years. bTEN YEARS./b And they replaced that time with false memories. She told me that today!"

"Why did the CIA erase your memories?" Max inquires, genuinely fascinated by his friend's situation.

"According to her, because of her death. It seems that I just couldn't handle it."

Max shakes his head, crazy. A pregnant silence hovers until Vaughn says what they are both thinking: "How the fuck could the CIA erase a decade of my life and I not know?"

Slowly, Max remarks, "Because they erased the erasing of them as well."

Vaughn opens his mouth to retort, but Max's growing smirk stops him. Holding his head in his right hand, Vaughn allows Max's comment to sink in before slowly laughing. "Good point."

Vaughn sighs, "I mean, you can't erase memories, right? I've never heard of such a thing."

"Well." Max starts, "Theoretically, I suppose that's true. I mean, think about Alzheimer's."

"You can manipulate memories, this is so, Max, but... Have you ever heard of anything like this?!"

"No. But, I don't know what the CIA does on a daily basis."

Vaughn rises again, at a loss for thoughts or words. He paces before standing behind the chair, and resting his hand on the back. "I have a hunch on her diagnosis. Did she tell you about Julia Thorne?"

Max shakes his head, and Vaughn enlightens, "I did background checks on Sydney. It's like she never existed. When she showed up at my house, she mentioned how she was pretending to be an assassin named Julia Thorne. And how Julia was tortured and has no memory of her five years."

"You're thinking Disassociate Disorder?"

Vaughn nods.

"Do you have any information on Julia Thorne?"

"No, I literally just came to this conclusion. I surmised that I'd run it by you first, then run background checks tonight."

"So this means you're not quitting?"

"Apparently not."

Max continues, "Good, this isn't about you, this is about her."

Vaughn jolts his head towards Max, not liking the idea of being lectured. "Bearing in mind her fixation with me, I think this is about me, just as much as this is about her."

"But it is her fixation, and whatever impact it has on your life, you need to get over it."

"Get over it? You try getting over being told the CIA not only erased but also implanted memories into your brain! I can't get over it Max. Do you understand exactly what she is saying? What it means if she is right? She's not…" Vaughn lets his thoughts trail off.

"If you're so certain she's not right, why are you making such a big deal out of it?"

"Don't analyze me."

"All I'm saying…"

Kristen's voice echoes over the intercom, "Mike, you have a call on line 2. It's Miss Clark."

Max questions Vaughn with his eyes. Vaughn begins to say, "Tell her…"

"She knows you're here."

Vaughn mouths fuck and picks up the phone. "Abby." His voice is raspy, and he curses himself for doing this.

"Michael. How are you?"

His mind says: tell her something, anything to make her get off the phone. He refuses to partake in this dance again. However, he replies. "I'm well. You?"

"I'm fine. I'm back for a while, until the papers are finalized."

He makes a sound like, Oh, but doesn't verbally respond. His mind reiterates: Get off the phone…

"I am calling to see if maybe you want to have dinner sometime soon." Her voice hasn't changed one bit. She still uses the same pleasing tone, acting as if nothing has changed.

By now his mind is screaming: No… No… No… Why? So you can mindf-ck with me again and make me fall in love with you and then shatter my hopes when you run off to Africa? No.. No.. No… "Sure, that sounds nice." Weakling. Why did he just say that?

"What about Monday?"

"Monday's good."

"How about you meet me at Beachwood's Brewery, say 7:30."

"7:30 it is."

"Great. It's going to be great to see you again."

"You too. Bye, Abby." Vaughn doesn't wait for her goodbye. He slams down the phone.

Max doesn't wait for Vaughn to speak. He says quickly, "It's been two years. You're different people."

"Shut up."

"You're an…"

Kristen's voice echoes over the intercom again, "Mike, you have a phone call… The Wicked Witch."

"I'm with a patient!"

"She'll wait."

"Patch her through," Vaughn orders. He picks up the receiver and immediately hangs up.

Max laughs, highly amused. "That was rude."

"But necessary. What is it about me that screams 'Come and get it!' to every crazy woman on this planet? As if Abby wasn't bad enough, then came Dylan."

"And let's not forget the woman you seemingly chose to forget…The lovely Miss Bristow."

"Yeah, how could I _forget_ her? She's well on her way to beating out the other contestants to be crowned Queen of the Basketcases."

What neither of the boys knew -- well Max knew, but he just forgot -- is that Sydney had asked to speak with Max before her next meeting with Vaughn. Max agreed to meet with Sydney and told her to come back at a better time, since he had an appointment in five minutes. Sydney nodded, deciding to come back later in the day. She slipped in the office and up the stairs without checking in, since she didn't want Kristen to tell Vaughn she was there.

As luck would have it, her timing allowed her to hear the latter half of the conversation, but that was more than enough to sting. Realizing that she has heard them, both of the men stare at her horrified as she quickly excuses herself and hastens down the steps. This isn't right. Plan D -- get Vaughn to trust her - failed. All she managed to do was make a fool out of herself. She ignores his shouts and leaves.

Sydney disappears from the door, and Max and Vaughn now gape at each other. Max waves him off -- Run-after-her-you-dimwit. Vaughn doesn't protest.

Sydney is already flying down the stairs when Vaughn calls out to her. She doesn't respond, so he chases after her (something he's never done before). He follows her out the door and into the parking lot. 


	8. Let Do It: Let's Fall In Love

**Chapter Eight: Let's Do It (Let's Fall In Love) Part I**

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

Vaughn leans over the railing, looking down onto the foyer and Sydney at the door. "Syd!" He flies down the stairs, cursing himself for his stupidity, and her for being her, and himself a little more. What did he do to deserve this? His life was perfectly content: good job, low monthly-payments, off-and-on romances -- then this insane woman walked into his office and blew it all to hell. Great.

Running through the front entrance and into the parking lot, Vaughn calls out: "Sydney!" She disappeared.

Argh!

Where is she? He feels compelled to apologize. Women have walked out on him before -- Dylan made an art of it, and Abby, well, she only did it once, but that's enough to count a lifetime. Never, has he felt compelled to explain himself and set the record straight. Prior outburst between he and his girlfriends resulted in a fusion of fault. He would bait, and she would bite, or versa visa. This is different, because…. Sydney is not his girlfriend.

He scans the parking lot and finally sees her; he takes off. "Sydney Bristow!" She stops, and Vaughn catches up. Sydney's eyes are bloodshot, and she looks to the ground. She bites her tongue. She is pissed.

"Miss Bristow, I want to apologize for those things I said. They --"

"Were cruel. Malicious. Sadistic." Vaughn can feel the spit hit his cheek.

He opens his mouth, taking his time, "I was going to use unprofessional and inappropriate."

"Do you undercut everything?"

"No. Sydney, I ran after you to say: I'm sorry."

"Go to hell, Vaughn!" As she begins to side step around him, he puts his head out and wrinkles his forehead. He can't let her leave, not under these conditions. They have barely begun to crack her psyche or discover her truth identity. He has to know the answers; the discovery will likewise answer the questions stirrings in his brain (and heart) as he stands before her.

His simple gesture sends Sydney on a tirade. "You have no idea what it's been like for me; to have to come here and have you treat me like some lunatic you ridicule! Is that how you treat all your patients or just me?"

She doesn't wait for a retort. Wiping her eyes, she starts to walk away, but he follows. "I'm sorry, Syd. I am truly sorry."

"No you're not. You can't lie to me."

"Fine." Vaughn snap, taking her bait. She has a point. The need to apologize drives his motivation more than actual guilt (but doesn't that prove something?). "You have no idea what this week has been like for me; to have a woman I've never met before tell me the past decade of my life has been a compete lie. How would you react to that?"

He's reacting pretty well, in his humble opinion. He hasn't called the police yet. He might even be willing to entertain the preposterous idea if it meant helping Sydney with her problems. What? Ten minutes ago he wanted to kick her to the curb, and now he wants to help her? What's going on?

"Try waking up and having five years of your life stolen from you! I don't remember five years of my life; and I only know bits and pieces from files and second hand accounts." Sydney lowers her head.

"Try being told you are brainwashed, and are some radical form of your true self."

"But you are! You are not Michael Vaughn!"

"That's complete… Wait? What does that even mean!"

What does that even mean? He steps forward; she doesn't break away. For the first time all week, since that initial surreal meeting, Sydney allows herself to be human. She drops the act, and Vaughn feels drawn to it. She intrigues him. Her emotions get the best of her; she fights the tears and to keep her voice from cracking. He watches her and wants to make it stop.

"You are some creature that the CIA crafted for their experiments. You look like and you talk like him, but they stole your memories and your personality that actually made up who are."

"Because of you. The CIA didn't do this to me, you did."

"How dare you --"

"Isn't that your story?"

"I loved you --"

"You died and I blew a fuse."

"I loved you so much --"

"And the CIA intervened because I lost you --"

"You were my constant. I felt you were --"

They finish together, "My _soul mate_."

Soul mate? Vaughn didn't believe in soul mates. He barely believes he's capable of truly loving another human being; yet now, he just used the word soul mate when referring to the Queen of the Basketcases. He's never use that word, ever. He mocked the girls in his British Lit courses for being naïve enough to hope. However, he just paraphrased her words, not his.

Still, that's doesn't explain Sydney. Silent tears stream down her cheek, and she acts bold. She itches towards him, invading his personal bubble. He doesn't back away. He raises his hand and caressed her check. Professionalism no longer clouds his mind; sanity no longer clouds his mind, instead an instinct he can't explain possessed him: he wants to protect her.

It's always been there -- maybe that's why he allowed her to hug him the first time they met, allowed her to take the psych evaluation, allowed her to become his patient, allowed her to stay his patient -- but now he's ready to admit it.

She lets her head fall onto his shoulder and beings to cry. "Syd, we're going to find out what's wrong."

Even if it meant daily session and disregarding his unease of being around her, he feels compelled to help her. Whatever she needed, no matter the cost to him.

Making eye contract, she makes her move. She's going to kiss him -- or is this just his imagination. Is that what he wants? He thinks…

He pulls away, nervously laughing at his actions. He can't let her kiss him. He can't cross that line. He can't let his feelings -- oh, Christ, are they feelings now -- get in the way of curing Sydney's illness. He has to stay (somewhat) professional for her sake. He inquires, "You Okay?"

She nods. She lies, and he knows it.

Impulsively, though, she inquires, "You hungry? Because I'm starving. Isn't there a Diner around the corner?"

He can't. He just can't. But, he doesn't want to be rude. "Yes, they have really good pie."

"Pie?"

"Blueberry pie."

"Do you want to go get some blueberry pie?"

Vaughn hesitates, but nods. "Okay." 


End file.
